Fangirls and the Men Who Love Them
by Mercator
Summary: A Moral and Uplifting Tale of Witches, Watchmen, Palace Inhabitants, Music, Hysteria, Hip-dancing, Blackmail, Black Leather, and several Violations of Ankh Morpork Laws & Ordinances. (FINI)
1. Girls Night Out

** This is a bit of fun I whipped up, short and sweet in 4 chapters. There will be naughtiness. There will be wholesome, moral violence. Tempers will be lost in unexpected places. Characters will act…strangely. We all do sometimes, especially when male-female relations are involved. So relax and have fun with the story.**

Disclaimer: DW etc. is Terry Pratchett's brilliant creation. Musical references courtesy of the Stray Cats and whatever record label owns their songs. 

1. Girls Night Out

            "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrekittykittykittykittykitty!"

            Nanny Ogg, the second most powerful witch in the rural kingdom of Lancre, stood with a plate of choicest giblets on the doorstep of her cottage. She looked a lot like a billiard ball on legs, short, round, dressed in black with just the hint of red underthings peeking out from under the hems. Normally, she had a wide, sloppy grin on her face. 

            Not today. 

            Giblets should have done the trick. The last time she set out a steaming plate of stench-ridden pig innerds, her cat Greebo had come flying out from wherever he'd been hiding himself. He was a gray cat, scarred, menacing, greedy, violent. In Lancre cat society, he was the most dominant of the dominant males. The fruit of his feline loins sprayed, sniffed and scavenged throughout the kingdom.

            Nanny set the plate in the cobblestone path. A fox wandered up.

            "Shoo!" she scolded.

            The fox sat back on its haunches. It was the clearest sign Nanny could have got. If Greebo was anywhere within smelling distance, the fox wouldn't have had the gall to sit down in front of what was obviously Greebo's supper. War would have ensued. Greebo was missing part of an ear and was laced with battle scars but it was well known in the animal world that his opponents normally got worse. 

            The fox flicked its tail and looked hungrily at the plate.

            Nanny scratched the hairs on her chin. Six weeks. Greebo had been gone six weeks. That wasn't like him. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with that innocent little potion he'd been helping her experiment with…

            Her mouth dropped open. 

            The fox lowered his nose to the plate.

            Nanny sprinted to get her broom and started composing in her head how to explain this to Lancre's first most powerful witch. 

            Who wasn't going to like this one bit.

**

            The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows of the Slightly Pink Drawing Room at the Ramkin-Vimes house in Ankh-Morpork. Tea was in progress. And a polite argument between a chestnut-haired woman with a friendly face and powerful hands, and the unselfconsciously elegant, light-eyed woman beside her. She was smiling like a demon.

            "Come on, Sybil."

            "Oh, I don't know."

            "It'll be fun."

            "I'd feel bad leaving Sam here by himself."

            "He's a grown man. He can amuse himself alone for one night. Come on. You'll have a great time."

            Lady Sybil, wife of Watch Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, dropped another sugar cube in her tea, while Hanna Stein, seamstress under contract to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, pointed an embossed silver spoon at her and said:

            "When was the last time you had a girls night out?"

            Sybil considered this. She didn't have very many girlfriends, being the type more comfortable with dragons. It wasn't that she was shy; she was just one of those people who, when confronted with a gaggle of stylish ladies of her social class, wished she didn't take up so much space.

            "We wouldn't know anyone else there," she said.

            "I can ask Angua to come. And Cheery. How about that?"

            "Would they come?"

            "Sure. Your husband will change their shift if you ask, won't he?"

            Sybil shook her head. "I can't interfere in Watch business."

            "Then I'll ask." Hanna straightened up in her chair. "I'll tell him the Patrician ordered it."

            "Why would the Patrician order him to change their shifts?"

            "Commander Vimes won't go for that?"

            "Probably not." 

            Sybil sighed. The kind of evening Hanna proposed was not something she normally did. As far as she'd been told, it would start in some sort of cellar club, somewhere that sounded rather sooty and dark and malodorous when full of people. There was apparently a small stage. A week ago, a new act had come that was electrifying the ladies of Ankh-Morpork. Sybil was skeptical and intrigued. At the last minute, she decided which way to swing. 

            "Oh, all right," she said.

            Hanna squealed and bounced in her chair.

            "But only if Angua and Cheery come with us. I'll ask Sam."

            "You won't regret it, Sybil. I heard this lad has broken hearts from here to Genua. I heard…" Hanna looked around as if she expected someone to be listening in. She lowered her voice. "I heard there's _in-sewer-ants_ on his hips for half a million dollars."

            She winked.

            Sybil blushed.

**

            The greatest witch on the Disc was named Granny Weatherwax. She was known for many character traits, but there were two that came full into play as she sat in her cottage rocking chair and listened to Nanny Ogg pour out her problems. 

            First, Granny was bad tempered on principle.

            Second, she had her own ideas about propriety and morals. 

            These were light years away from the ideas of Nanny Ogg. This became more obvious the longer Nanny talked.

            "…and so's I thought, I'll just give it a try. Why not? It ain't right that Mrs. Huggins down Fortner way doesn't find her Ralph as appealin' as she used to, I mean, that's a legitimate witchin' problem that I can solve, ain't it? And a few months ago, Mamie Laws said the same thing, said her Martin was boring her to death. And Felicity Scooner, she's had a head ache for three _years_. Said her George is about as excitin' as a dry sponge. Now, I ask you, as a witch, would you just sit there and let those fine women suffer? Or would you find a way to get their husbands to show a little fire?"

            Granny rocked back and forth, a frown cemented on her face, her arms folded. Nanny squirmed a little in her seat.

            "All right, it weren't the best idea using Greebo. But our Jason's had lots to do at the smithy and our Shawn, he's got the marital arts course going up at the castle and, well, there weren't nobody else around. It was supposed to be temporary, believe me, Esme. Get Greebo into human shape again like we did that one time, you remember, don't you? And then test out the potion on him. If it'd make him desirable to women, it'd work for Mamie Laws' husband, right? Logic. Simple as pie. There weren't no way anything was going to go wrong."

            Granny looked like a cigar store Indian, silent and watchful.

            "How was I to know Greebo'd get it into his head to drink up the whole bottle? He did it when I wasn't lookin', and believe me, he's going to get the hiding of his life when I get a hold of him. There's no tellin' what mischief he'll be up to." Nanny's face softened. "The poor thing's far from home, I can tell you that. You feel how relaxed the animals are?"

            Granny nodded.

            "A fox ate his giblets, Esme. That means Greebo's not even in the kingdom." Nanny paused for dramatic effect. "We got to find him before his…um…" Her gaze slid away from Granny toward the hearth.

            "Is there somethin' you ain't told me, Gytha Ogg?" 

            Nanny was still squirming. The razor glare of Granny forced her to speak. "Well, this potion, see, I'm guessin' it's had an effect on Greebo's morphic field. If he's still in human form after six weeks, well, I reckon there might be some surprising changes to his…er…"

            Granny's eyes narrowed.

            "…his…er…" Nanny closed her eyes. "Anatomy."

            "Anatomy," said Granny.

            "Yes, Esme." Nanny couldn't hold it in any longer. She broke out into a grin. "_Anatomy_."

**

            In some respects, Hanna Stein was the most powerful woman in Ankh-Morpork. She was the only woman who could casually mention something to the Patrician, who would not so casually mention it to someone else, causing things in the city to _happen_, for better or worse. She didn't normally use this power, but Bongo, owner of Bongo's Song Pit, didn't know that. Without being asked, he put Hanna, Sybil, Angua and Cheery Littlebottom right up front and center, off the stage. Prime spots.

            It was a warm summer night, the stench of the Ankh wafting through the air and mingling with the Song Pit's own natural odours, which included alcohol, sweat and a great deal of perfume. Ninety percent of the people packed into the cellar were women. Young women, old women, women who looked like respectable mothers of four, women who weren't wearing corsets, women who were wearing _only_ corsets, stockings and garters.

            Sybil was bundled up in the type of underthings that kept everything from wobbling, and she wore a pleasant dark blue velvet gown and flat heeled shoes. She could have been at a social event at the Palace. Watch Sergeant Angua, werewolf, scowled at the stage, her nose up, her ash blonde hair loose down her back. She hadn't bothered to dress up. She'd heard about the show and had her doubts. The dwarf Cheery Littlebottom was in chain mail, high heels, and had on glittering golden lipstick. One could say she was on the prowl. Her boyfriend had been getting on her nerves lately. Hanna knew this because Cheery's boyfriend happened to be Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician's head clerk, who'd been slinking around the Palace lately with a distressed look on his face.        

            For the record, Hanna wore red. It was a dress she'd modelled for the Patrician in private, after which he'd firmly forbidden her to ever wear it again. In public. It draped to the floor, granted, but bits of it were cut out in strategic places so that the dress seemed to suggest the illusion of nothing underneath. Which wasn't really an illusion. Hanna didn't have anything on underneath. 

            All four women held cocktails in their hands. Umbrellas, bits of pineapple and glittering paper sprouted from the cups. Sybil looked around.

            "Why isn't there any place to sit?"

            "I heard you won't be wanting to sit when this gets started," said Hanna.

            Cheery extricated a cocktail straw from her beard. "Some of the Watch girls were here a few nights ago. They said it's the best show they've ever seen."

            Angua was still sniffing the air. Something wasn't right…

            The lights dimmed a little. A few guys in black walked onto the stage and started tuning up their instruments, a guitar, a bass, drums.

             There were whistles from the audience. Stomping of feet. A scream, taken up by someone else, spreading.

            "Something's not right," said Angua, but nobody heard her. The excitement raced through the air like something tangible, a force that gripped every woman and injected her with something that felt like distilled adrenalin.      

            Hanna was practically hopping already. "This'll be great!" she called.

            Sybil leaned down.

            "What?"

            "This is great!"

            "WHAT?"

            Clapping started up. A rhythmic beat, hundreds of hands slapping together in unison. Cheery set her cup aside and joined in. Sybil was sweating in unpleasant places.

            "It's certainly hot in here," she said.

            "What?" called Hanna, who was clapping now too.

            The musicians on stage finished tuning. A few moments later, Bongo, a vampire  in a goatee and black beret, approached a long, metallic instrument that looked like a fireplace poker upright on a stand. There was a kind of small box on the top end that held a tiny demon.  When Bongo spoke into the box, the demon magnified his voice out over the applause.

            "All right, cool cats, I can see you flipping already."

            Screams.

            Bongo grinned, his fangs gleaming in the spotlights. He held out a hand, flapping it in a joking attempt to fan the audience, to cool them down.

            "The time has come vunce again to present to you the newest kick on the Disc. And there's something I have to tell you, vord from the bird." He smiled slyly. "The daddy's got some new tricks up his sleeve."

            The screams pitched higher.

            "All I ask is that you hep cats don't tear the roof down. Y'hip?"

            Cheery and Hanna were clutching each other and jumping up and down in unison. Sybil was suppressing the urge to start screaming along with everybody else. Angua's gaze kept shifting from the audience to the stage, her eyes wide.

            Bongo snapped his fingers. "So let me hear a varm Song Pit velcome for…" he stretched an arm toward the wings, "…Greebo and the Tomcats!"

            The lights flashed off, a spotlight popped onto the stage and caught in its glow a man.  He strode onto the stage with a tambourine in his hand. He stopped in front of the microphone and looked directly at Sybil through a narrow green eye that, unlike its twin, was not covered by an eye patch.

            He winked at her.        

            The screams started at the back of the club and crashed against the stage like a tsunami, picking up Sybil and Hanna and Cheery and even Angua. Their mouths were open. Sound was coming out.

            Greebo started snapping his fingers, one of his black leather boots tapping at the end of a leg of his tight black leather trousers. Very tight leather, Sybil noticed, with an accompanying jump in her body temperature. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just an open black leather vest over what Cheery noticed was a chest of pure, hard muscle dusted with black hair. He wore a small bell around his neck tied off with black ribbon. A scar slashed across his face and his hair was tousled, like he hadn't bothered to comb it. Hanna was transfixed by the scar and the hair. This was obviously a man who didn't spend his nights reading quarterly budget reports.

            "Roooooowwwwrrrrr, good evening, ladies!" crooned Greebo.

            Somebody pushed Angua aside and tried to climb onto the stage, but one of Bongo's men hooked her around the waist and hauled her down.

            "Arrrrrrrre you rrrready?" Greebo breathed into the microphone. He had a voice like melted chocolate.

            The audience screamed.

            "Arrrrrre you rrrready?"

            The howl from the ladies was deafening.

            Maybe it was her perspective at the foot of the stage, but Sybil was entranced by his trousers. Black leather. Sam never wore black leather. Even if he did, well, Sybil was afraid to admit he wouldn't look half as good. It didn't seem the right kind of thing to think about her husband, but there it was, staring at her in two long, slender, compact, muscular legs that led up to a bulging…um…

            She glanced at Hanna. The seamstress had a concentrated "notice me" look on her face. If she stared hard enough, maybe he'd look at her.

            From somewhere, Cheery had found a milk crate that she was now standing on. Bouncing on, to be more precise. She was now at height level with Angua, who was breathing hard, her head tossed back, howling with everyone else. Whatever she'd been worried about, she'd forgotten it already.

            The guitar, bass and drums started up the song to the beat Greebo set with his snapping fingers and tapping boot. The music sounded a lot like Music with Rocks On. Once it's introduced into the world, no art form ever really goes away. Music With Rocks On wasn't as popular as it was a few years back but it was still heard at the underground clubs. The Tomcats were better than most of the Music with Rocks On bands of yore. The guitar whined, the cymbals clanged, the bass thumped.

            Greebo crooned so softly that at first, Sybil could only make out the words "fence" and "rent" and "strut" and "tail."

            Then he got louder, the tambourine smacking his hip.

            "Stray cat strut, I'm a—"

            "—_ladies' cat_," sang the Tomcats.

            "I'm a feline Casanunda--"

            "_Hey_!"

            The screaming jumped several decibel levels because Greebo had accented the "Hey" after his mention of the Disc's second greatest lover with a forward-motion pelvic thrust. Sybil almost fainted. Hanna gripped the stage like she intended to climb up and wrap herself around his legs. 

            Cheery's arms were stretched out, ready to press Greebo to her armoured bosom right then and there. She couldn't imagine her boyfriend moving like that. Not Drumknott. His hips probably didn't even _do_ that.

            Angua was dancing, shaking to the beat, flailing her hair wildly. She recognized animal magnetism when she saw it, and it energized her. Captain Carrot, her boyfriend, always polite, doing everything by the book, he didn't know what it was to be _dangerous_.

            Greebo was still singing.

            "I don't bother chasin' mice around… I slink down the alley lookin' for a fight, howlin' to the moonlight on a hot summer night…"

            His hips moved all the time now, in concert with his shoulders and the tambourine. He was tossing himself around, showing off his body. It was the kind of raw masculinity that Hanna had never seen in the cognitive machine she was with at the Palace. Vetinari, man of intellect. 

            Hysteria broke out in the Song Pit. The crowd surged forward, pressing Sybil, Hanna, Cheery and Angua against the stage. The choice was to stay there and get crushed or to go up to the footlights by _him_.

            Greebo obviously noticed what was going on. At a break in the lyrics, he slithered the tambourine over his arm and held his hands out to the four like he was offering himself to them. They practically fought each other to be the first to be helped by those hands. That sly smile, those green-yellow eyes, those _hips_…

**Coming up:  We've got the fangirls here. The title of the story promised you the men who love them…**


	2. A Night in AnkhMorpork

Oh, I love this chapter. I _love_ this chapter. You'll see why, my fellow **fangirls**! Thanks a ton for the reviews. I'm happy to deliver healthy moral lust in a comic package. The last two chapters of the story may take longer to get done, but I trust this one will keep y'all toasty warm until the update. (grin).

**Note**: I'm not really a fangirl. I wouldn't hang around outside the Palace hoping to catch a glimpse of Vetinari if he was real. I swear. I'm more sensible than that. I really am. Really.

2. A Night in Ankh-Morpork  

            Later, Ankh-Morpork settled back for another night of assassinations, licensed thieving and general low-level mayhem.

            The Song Pit still had a roof when Greebo and the Tomcats were through. Barely. The place only emptied out after Bongo threatened to spray the crowd with a garden hose.

            Originally, Sybil, Hanna, Angua and Cheery had planned to go somewhere else after the show to talk over what they'd seen, have a bite to eat, wind down. But none of them felt like it. Outside the club, they hardly spoke to each other. After short good byes, Sybil headed to the shopping district, Angua started walking toward Pseudopolis Yard, and Cheery surprised Hanna by asking if she could share her cab.

            The night proceeded for each like this:

            Sybil got home right when Sam Vimes was about to head up for bed. He had a candle in his hand and a book tucked under his arm. His foot was on the bottom stair when she came through the front door holding a bundle.

            "Evenin', Sybil." He kissed her cheek and looked her over. Her hair was falling out of its pins and her dress was still damp. "You look like you took a dip in the Ankh," he said. "Too hot for you at that music club?"

            He wasn't known for his tact, though he was improving under Sybil's influence.

            She hung her shawl on a hook. It was ripped.

            "Did you have fun?" he asked. "Better have. Changing the shift for Angua and Cheery ought to have at least been worth…"

            His voice faded.

            Sybil was smiling a peculiar smile. She took the candle out of his hand and without a word led him up to the bedroom. There, she did a thorough examination of his trousers. They were dirty, weathered brown leather and only went down to his knees. Standard Watch issue.

            The bundle was actually a bag. She reached inside and pulled out a pair of brand new black leather trousers.

            Vimes looked at them warily.

            "Where'd you get those? Assassins Guild sale?"

            "I think they're nice."

            He held them up. "Look a bit small for you, I'm afraid."

            "Oh, do they?" Sybil pretended to look disappointed. "Well, maybe you could get some use out of them."

            "I already got a pair of trousers."

            "Those old things?" She plucked at his brown leathers.

            "What's wrong with 'em?

            "They're not very--"

            "Clean, that's true. I'll have them washed tomorrow, I swear."

            "No, I meant--"

            "Stylish. Well, maybe they were when _grandad_ wore 'em, but--"

            "You wear them every day, Sam. Is that necessary?"

            He looked shocked.

            "It's my uniform."

            "But these are so much nicer." She held the black leathers against him. They were the right length, but that didn't sway Vimes.

            "They look a nip too tight where it counts, if you know what I mean."

            "Just try them on. They'll be comfortable. The man at the shop told me so."

            Vimes rubbed the stubble on his chin. "What was _he_ wearing, then?"

            "These exact things." The man at the shop had actually worn a dress but that wasn't something Vimes needed to know. "Try them on, Sam," she said, batting her eyes at him. "For me."

            The trousers in her hands looked like they could stand up on their own. Vimes doubted their comfort value. But then, there was Sybil, blushing for some reason. He couldn't guess why. He took the things from her.

            "I'll try them on. But if they pinch, you take them back tomorrow."

            "They won't pinch."

            She stared at him while he unbuttoned the old brown leathers, and the way she was doing it, a kind of hungry stare he didn't often see from her, made him go behind the wardrobe screen to change. It took him several tries to get the trousers buttoned properly. A tad bow legged, he emerged from behind the screen.

            "Look, Sybil, the things are--"

            She gasped, a hand over her mouth.

            The trousers had a sucked-in gut effect, besides slimming him down. He was missing a decent pair of black boots but that could be remedied in the morning. His calves were nice to begin with, and the leather clung to them like tar and stretched over his knees and his thighs, well, they left something to be desired muscle-wise compared to Greebo, but still. Overall, they really looked quite…good.

            "They're _wonderful_," she sighed.

            "They pinch."

            "I love them." She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

            "Well, I reckon I _could_ get used to them."

            Sybil backed up for a better look again. "Can you tap your foot?"

            "Why?"

            "Humour me, Sam. Please? Just tap it. Like this." She tapped her foot. "To a beat."

            Sam Vimes' sense of beat left something to be desired, but he tried anyway. Sybil clapped and he tapped his foot. When she asked him to snap his fingers at the same time he was quickly overwhelmed.

            "All right," he said. "That's enough. I think I've got circulation loss happening, here." He started fiddling with the trouser buttons.

            Flushed and smiling, Sybil brushed his hands away. "Here, let me do it."

            She took her time. A man in black leather was a man in black leather, when you got right down to it.

            Angua found Captain Carrot doing paperwork at his desk at Watch headquarters. He looked up and smiled.

            "I didn't know you'd be in tonight. Did you have a good time?"

            "Yes. Definitely." She did something Carrot had never seen from his self-possessed werewolf girlfriend. She twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers and let it drop again. Twisted and dropped, over and over. "Do you have time for a break?" she asked.

            "Sure. Want to go for a walk? It's a beautiful night."

            They walked toward Ankh, the uppity part of Ankh-Morpork. They strolled all the way to Hide Park, the pleasure garden of the wealthy. The lake glittered in the starlight.

            "It's warm out," said Angua. "Aren't you warm in your armour?"

            "No."

            "You must be warm. Let me help you take it off."

            They were by a clump of willow trees that bent over the edge of the lake. Carrot waved Angua's hands away.

            "The armour's fine, Angua."

            "Well, I'm too hot. It's stifling out here." She began stripping.

            Captain Carrot was stunned enough to withhold all comment until she was down to her underthings.

            "Er…you can't just take your clothes off on municipal property. It's a public area. It's…"

            Angua straightened, her hair flipped back, every inch of skin free to enjoy the night air. She smiled. It was a peculiar smile.

            Carrot cleared his throat.

            "That's…er…indecent exposure, as defined in the _Laws and Ordinances of the Cities of Ankh and Morpork_. When you're changing, well, _that's_ fine, that's a werewolf exception to the ordinance, but just taking your clothes off for no reason, that's…"

            She strolled to the edge of the lake. The walk had something sleek and animal and inviting to it. Carrot noticed her hips and shoulders. Swinging. They didn't _normally _do that, did they?

            "I'm going for a swim, Carrot. Coming?"

            "There's rules about that. You can't swim in the lake without decent bathing attire and a floatation device approved by the Guild of Exotic Dancers, Life Guards and Preservative Manufacturers."

            Carrot was taking a course in municipal law at the Guild of Lawyers. It showed.

            "Come on. Be a little dangerous."

            She had that smile again. Carrot had never seen it before.

            "I don't want to report you," he said. "But I'm required to report all violations of the code."

            Angua tapped his breastplate. "Let me take this off for you. If you swim in that, you'll sink like a stone."

            "I think there's a ten dollar fine. Maybe it's twenty now. Some of the ordinances were updated so the fines are reflected in today's dollars."

             Angua sighed and dug her substantial nails into his shoulder.

            "Let. Me. Take. This. _Off_." It wasn't her time of the month but her voice still had a low-level growl.

            A light went off in Carrot's head.

            "Er, indecent relations in Hide Park carries a fine of--"

            Angua hauled him into the willow trees.

            Though it had never happened before, there was only one reason why Cheery would want to go to the Palace after hours. She and Hanna didn't say much in the carriage, and when they stepped into the courtyard, they exchanged conspiratorial smiles before going their separate ways.

            One of the things they had talked about in the carriage was the location of Rufus Drumknott's bedroom and his recent sleeping habits. Hanna didn't comment on why she knew where his bedroom was (and Cheery didn't ask), but she gave accurate directions and also mentioned that the Patrician's clerk had taken to being in bed by midnight the past couple weeks. Certainly ever since his and Cheery's relationship hit rough waters.

            It was information Cheery used.

            His door was unlocked, the bedroom dark. Cheery tiptoed in as quietly as she could on her iron-heeled boots. Drumknott didn't snore, but his deep, regular breathing helped guide Cheery to the part of the room that contained his bed. As a dwarf, she had relatively good night vision. She could see him stretched out, his face troubled even in sleep.

            She sat on the edge of the bed.

            "Rufus," she whispered.

            He slept on.

            She leaned over him. How sweet he looked when he slept. Though of course, she wasn't much interested in sweet that night. She wondered if he'd understand that.

            "Rufus," she said louder.

            His eyes blinked open.

            "Cheery?" he said dreamily.

            "Are you awake?"

            He pulled himself up.

            "What are you doing here?"

            "I've been thinking." Cheery paused. She knew she was crossing into some mysterious realms. Dating a human was strange enough for a dwarf. But this…

            "Thinking about what?" asked Drumknott.

            "About us. I was just…" She closed her eyes and the evening came back to her, the leather and crooning and swinging hips. "I think we should take our relationship to the next level."

            "I thought you thought it was--"

            "I change my mind. But only on one condition."

            Drumknott was a clever lad. It was part of the reason he did so well in the competitive bureaucratic environment in the Palace. He didn't see very well in the dark but he could make out the outline of Cheery's head and beard, and he heard the chain mail clink when she moved. She was agitated, he could sense it. If he didn't want to completely ruin this, perhaps his last chance to fix things up with her, he'd better listen.

            "Tell me, sweetheart. Whatever it is and I'll do it."

            There was a pause. Then Cheery lit a candle and waved for Drumknott to stand up. He was wearing a suit in bed. He was taking his readiness to answer the call of his master to new extremes.

            Cheery refrained from rolling her eyes, and said, "Do you know any dances besides those, you know, waltzes and things?"

            Drumknott looked relieved. "I know the fox trot, the two-step, the--"

            "No, I don't mean stuff like that." She took a breath. "You know, the kind with…er…hips."

            "Hips?"

            Cheery nodded.

            "Like…" Slow horror dawned on Drumknott. "Belly-dancing?"

            "Sort of. Can you do that?" She thought a moment. "But with the hips. Hip-dancing."

            Drumknott stared at Cheery. She was looking up at him with a mix of hope and embarrassment. He thought over the sacrifice he was about to make, and whether it was worth it.

            Then he tossed his jacket over a chair, snapped his fingers in the air and began to move his hips.

            The Patrician Lord Vetinari, supreme ruler of the city, sat in his office reading a report. It was the quarterly budget estimate. A fat candle cast light on the desk top, where stacks of other files and reports waited for his thorough, patient review.

            Hanna slipped in through the door to the waiting room.

            The Patrician didn't look up from his work.

            "Good evening, Hanna. I trust you enjoyed yourself."

            "It was great fun. I think I'll go back tomorrow night."

            The office door had a single steel bolt. When Hanna pulled, it thumped into place with a sound of finality. She crossed over to his desk.

            "It was insanity, Havelock. Everyone jumping around. I did too."

            "Really." The Patrician turned to the next page of the report.

"It was good exercise, at least, even if we all looked daft."

            "Ah." He made a note on the page in pencil.

            "It's good to just get worked up every once in a while."

            "I'm sure."

            Hanna looked down at him. Everything about him was peaked and stern and controlled. She knew she'd come back and find him here working. Maybe he'd get up to examine his maps or to fetch new ink but he was perfectly happy to remain in that chair the whole night. So predictable. So _boring_.

            "Is that the quarterly budget estimate?" she asked.

            "You did a fine job on it, though I did have to correct some organizational issues." He shuffled through the papers. "A table that includes municipal income from licensing fees, traffic infractions and so on should--"

            She snatched the report out of his hand. Without explanation, she gathered up the other papers on his desk, one stack after another.

            "Of course I was listening to you," Lord Vetinari sighed. "I'm delighted you found the evening so enjoyable." He watched her circle around to the other side of his desk to pick up the remaining files.

            "It is encouraging to see you socialize with Lady Sybil," he said. "I quite approve. It upsets Vimes immensely. Not _that_."

            The Patrician slapped a hand on the confidential foreign dispatches but Hanna pulled them out and added them to the growing stack of files in her arms. When she had everything, she dropped the column of paper into a large waste basket.

            "A wonderfully efficient way to clear my desk, thought it lacks a certain thoroughness," Vetinari said. He caught her hand. "Come, now. End this childishness."

            She twisted away, scooped up the basket and carried it to the conference table.

            "You're not working anymore tonight," she said.

            "That is not for you to decide."

            She went to a cupboard and returned with a box of matches. This changed the power dynamics in the realm of decision making, and Lord Vetinari knew it. She'd have a match lit and dropped into the basket before he could cross from his desk to the conference table. He had no doubt that she'd follow through on the threat if she didn't get what she wanted. She was alarmingly good at blackmail. She called it negotiation, of course, and Vetinari couldn't really argue with that. It was negotiation in which pressure was applied to influence the outcome. He did it all the time in politics.

            He rested his elbows on his desk and pressed his fingertips together. "If I am not working anymore tonight, what will I be doing? It appears you have a suggestion."

            "Push ups."

            He blinked.

            "I beg your pardon?"

            "You heard me, sir. If you do fifty push ups, I won't torch your paperwork."

            "This has gone on long enough." He got up, but stopped when Hanna struck a match. She held it over the papers.

            "I'm not in the mood to argue," she said.

            He watched the flame consume the bit of wood on its way to Hanna's fingertips. She lifted a second match, ready to ignite it with the first. Obviously, she was serious.

            "Ten," he said.

            "Fifty."

            "Fifteen."

            "_Fifty_."

            He gave an exasperated sigh. "You are not haggling correctly. And I doubt I could manage fifty."

            "Forty, then."

            "Fifteen."

            "Thirty five."

            "Twenty."

            "Thirty."

            "Twenty five.

            Hanna paused. "Twenty five. Topless."

            The Patrician leaned against the desk, a hand over his smile. "Forgive me if I find this comical."

            She selected a stack of papers from the basket.

            "The beer tariff," she said, lighting another match.

            "That was written partly for the benefit of your family, Hanna. If you destroy it, I will not rewrite it. There will be no tariff on foreign beer as long as I am Patrician."

            Hanna glanced at the papers again.

            "I lied. It's the confidential report from your spies in Uberwald."

            The Patrician straightened, the smile gone.

            "_Hanna_."

            "Twenty five topless push ups, sir. You have two seconds to decide."

            The Patrician frowned.

            Hanna touched the flame to the report. The pages caught, she blew softly and they flared up. She held them over the waste basket.

            "Better hurry up," she said sweetly. "It's for your own good. You don't get enough exercise." She gave him an impish smile. "I want to see you _sweat_."

            He didn't have a clear idea why she would want to see something as uninspiring as Havelock Vetinari sweating, but he hadn't become the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork by refusing to make sacrifices for his work. He always had. He would do it now.

            And later, he would make it clear to Hanna in subtle and unpleasant ways that this was the very last time she would get away with something like this.

            He unbuttoned his collar and pulled his robe over his head. He had on light trousers underneath, which he kept, but the white shirt was taken off and tossed aside. He was far too pale and thin. Hanna thought wistfully of Greebo's hyper-masculine musculature, but decided she had to work with the material she had available.

            Lord Vetinari lowered himself to his knees. They were not happy about it.

            "Real push ups, mind you," said Hanna. "Count out loud, please."

            The first ten went smoother than she thought they would, she was disappointed to see, but it went, from her perspective, uphill from there. By twelve, he was lowering himself down slower and grunting on the way up. By fifteen, she'd set the papers aside and was on her knees in front of him, watching.

            For his part, Vetinari knew that he could stop now that she'd been lured away from the waste basket. But it wasn't about the paperwork anymore. It was about honour. Maybe he was almost 50, but he should still be able to do twenty five little push ups…

            By twenty, sweat was dripping off his forehead and he grunted the numbers out between clenched teeth. He was concentrating so hard on the carpet and getting his arm muscles to do what they hadn't been required to do in some years that he didn't notice Hanna unbuttoning her gown.

            He collapsed at twenty five and spilled, gasping, onto his back. It was right where Hanna wanted him.

Did I mention that I _love_ this chapter?


	3. Tiger Beet

All right, **fangirls** (and maybe fanboys, who knows?), the next instalment of Greebo goodness has arrived!  Sorry it's taken so long. Thanks for the reviews – Random shout outs to **Eileen, Ysabet, Delirium, Fireblade** and all my dear true blue readers.  The last chapter (4) won't take so long to post. And after that…Another Hanna-Havvie epic.

**3**.

            The mail coach rattled through the countryside. It had just left the boundary of Lancre and was heading rimwards at a leisurely pace toward Ankh-Morpork. The witches would've liked to travel faster but there weren't any more options.

            "I told you," said Granny for the hundredth time since they'd boarded the coach in Lancre city. "I told you to change the bristles on yer broom yerself."

            "I told our Tommy's wife Molly to do it but she's a lazy gel."

            Nanny Ogg stretched her legs out on the seat opposite. They were alone in the coach because once she was in her seat, Nanny had removed her shoes. Within seconds, the other passengers said they'd take the next one.

            "You got to do it yerself," grumbled Granny.

            "Your broom don't work either."

            "That's different. It fell out of the thatch on its own. And I dint know Shirley was nibbling on the bristles. She's a smart goat but she won't be doing that again."

            The origin of Shirley's recent stomach troubles was revealed when Granny and Nanny went in search of the broomstick and found it half eaten behind a mulberry bush.

            "I still think we could've used Agnes-Perdita's broom," complained Nanny. "She offered it."

            Granny folded her arms. "It was filthy. I ain't against using a broom to sweep up but I ain't climbing on anything with that many dust devils. No telling where that thing's been." Her jaw was set. "We'll get there by and by, Gytha."

            "Poor Greebo," Nanny sighed.

            Before leaving Lancre, they'd taken a look in the tea cup to see if they could find the dear little cat. In the murky waters of the tea leaves, they'd seen what seemed to them to be a sea of hysterical women, some in stages of undress. Then the scene settled on Greebo in human form – dressed in a fashion Granny found completely unacceptable. He was taking a massive swing at someone before scampering away.

            There were no overt clues as to where this was taking place, but before the tea was cold, Granny was up and packing.

            "Ankh-Morpork," she said.

            "How do you know?"             

            "A place with a pack of screaming half-dressed women that'd let Greebo prance around in public like that must be a sink of immorality and c'ruption."

            "Could be lots of places."

            "Ankh-Morpork," said Granny firmly.

            And since Granny had the best instincts in these things, they'd hitched a ride on the mail coach. They weren't paying. Witches never paid.

--

            Days and nights came and went in that sink of immorality and c'ruption, Ankh-Morpork.

            At the Palace, the morning Watch meeting wasn't running as smoothly as it normally did. They'd stumbled through the wage issue and the thing about the watch house tea ration. Somewhere in the middle of a discussion about hiring practices, Lord Vetinari looked up from the paper he'd been consulting. He was frowning.

            "What was I just talking about?"

            Captain Carrot, who'd spent the meeting clutching a paper in his hand and looking distressed, shrugged his large shoulders.

            "I wasn't really listening, sir. Sorry."

            Vetinari and Carrot looked at Commander Sam Vimes. Who didn't want to be looked at. He was wearing black leather. The breastplate covered the leather vest but there was no disguising the trousers. Or the boots. He squeaked when he walked.

            He wasn't listening to Vetinari either because he'd begun to notice little details around the Oblong Office. Things that seemed different or out of place. The ink stain on the floor next to the desk. A patch of carpet that appeared to be burned. One of the conference table chairs was missing. And he could have sworn there'd always been a waste paper basket in there somewhere.

            "Mind wandering a bit, there, sir," he said. "_Mine_, not yours."

            "I gathered that, Vimes."

            "Sorry, sir."

            None of them looked like they'd got much sleep that week. Even Carrot, a youngster compared to the others and an adopted dwarf big as a hill, looked like he could use a bit of shut eye. Vimes, Carrot and Vetinari had not told the others in detail what they'd been up to, or rather, what their wife, girlfriend and mistress respectively had "influenced" them to be up to after their girls nights. Every night that week.

            Vetinari folded his hands on his desk. "Is there something more pressing to discuss than the hiring practices of the Watch?"

            Carrot unfolded his paper. "Well, I did want to bring up--"

            "Carrot, not again," said Vimes. "We don't _care_…"

            "I think it's important, sir." Carrot smoothed the paper in his palm. "Every violation of the city ordinances should be reported. It's my duty to report that a violation of Paragraph 17, Section 2 stroke ii Activities Banned at Public Crossroads was committed by myself and Sergeant Angua last night at 1:03 a.m. on the corner of--"

            "I don't want to hear it, Carrot!" cried Vimes. "Do you think that's important? Do you think you have problems? Try wearing trousers that are so tight a pair of clamps would be an improvement! I don't think I can get the bloody things off now! I'm going to be buried in them. They're going to be around long after I'm gone. How's that for problems? Eh?"

            "This is important too, sir," said Carrot. There was an edge of sulk to his voice.

            "Gentlemen, please." Lord Vetinari got up from his seat. He needed his walking stick to do it and he was…wincing. He suppressed it but Vimes and Carrot noticed. They noticed how stiffly he moved when he came out from behind his desk, and it was only then that they realized they'd only seen him sitting down the whole week.

            There was a listless knock at the side door and Rufus Drumknott dragged himself in, his head down, every step seeming to weigh a mountain. He dropped a file on the Patrician's desk and turned to leave.

            "Ah, Drumknott," said the Patrician. "You may want to join us."

            The clerk turned around. The young man didn't look tired. He looked like he'd spent the last week running a marathon without a single moment of rest. He looked like he couldn't remember what sleep was. He had the blood shot eyes, the dark circles, the dull expression.

            Vimes and Carrot suddenly didn't feel like they had it so bad.

            "Gentlemen, I believe we should face facts," said the Patrician. "The nightly jaunts of Lady Sybil, Miss Stein, Sergeant Angua and Corporal Littlebottom are having a distressing effect on us."

            "Not totally, milord," said Drumknott. "Cheery's much more open to the--"

            "_Distressing_ _effects_," repeated Vetinari, "which include a negative impact on our work." He nodded to the conference table. "Please have a seat. It is the operative moment to form a plan of action."

            Carrot sat down with relief, Drumknott slumped into his chair and Vimes appeared to have trouble bending his legs. A good deal of squeeching occurred before he got it sorted out.

            After Lord Vetinari eased himself into a seat, he set his walking stick on the table and fixed his companions with a steady gaze.

            "Something must be done, gentlemen," he said. "I'm afraid my knees can't take much more of this."

--

            _New from Tiger Beet! _

_            Greebo!_

_            "He's sooooo cute!"_

_                        -- Derka von Fern, Grand Duchess of Chirm, 12 years old._

            The iconograph on the front of the magazine _Tiger Beet_, which purported to introduce Ankh-Morpork's young ladies age 10 to 17 to the hottest music and theater artists on the Disc, was the reason Greebo normally had to move through the city incognito. The iconograph was all hips. And it looked like the printer had somehow managed to tweeze additional chest hair into the picture, eliminate one or two scars from Greebo's face that were considered unsightly, and develop, using a refined technique of light and shadow, a bulge in the leather trousers to a size larger than it really was. Not that it was needed.

            Greebo liked the magazine, and not just because of the name. The paper smelled good. When he wanted a nap, he scattered a hundred copies of _Tiger Beet_ on the floor in the hotel room his manager C.M.O.T. Dibbler had got him. It was like sleeping on Nanny Ogg's lap, but not so muffy.

            At the moment, he had a copy of the magazine tucked under his arm while enjoying a patrol of his territory. Since arriving in Ankh-Morpork, he'd easily defeated in single combat all of the male stray cats within 10 city blocks of Bongo's Song Pit. He flung his vanquished foe into the river with satisfaction, then returned to his newly won territory for the crowning moment. The Marking. Two middle age ladies with fruit salads on their hats caught him marking his territory against a brick wall on the corner of Cable and Easy Streets. The lady with the umbrella shook it at him.

            "Here! Young man! You--"

            Greebo turned around.

            The umbrella slipped onto the street. The ladies stared.

            "Er…You…"

            Greebo hadn't purposefully forgotten to button up his trousers, but since it was done, it was fine to enjoy the response it was getting.

            "Helloooo, ladies," he cooed. When he smiled, his fangs dented his lower lip.

            The ladies were both 50 years old. They were both widows. They were twin sisters with plump middles and yellow ringlets and a tad too much hair on the upper lips. Above all, they were respectable. No man in black with an eye patch and his manhood hanging out had ever been encountered by the sisters in their eventful lives. _If_ such a thing was to happen, they knew what they were supposed to do. One of them had an umbrella and she intended to use it violently in the name of propriety and public decency. She stooped to pick it up from the cobbles. Greebo bent to help her and that's when it came.

            The scent…

            The lady breathed in a cloud of Greebo, not a scent that could be bottled (though Dibbler was working on it), but one that seemed to reach up under her dress and drill through her petticoats and tickle her in the one location respectable ladies were not to be tickled in. This was the real genius of Nanny Ogg's potion. The eyes could be closed to masculine wiles and the ears could be stopped up against their sweet words. But _that_ scent cut through even the worst sinus trouble. The ladies didn't plug their noses fast enough.

            Greebo stepped gracefully toward an alley, paused to look back, and curled a finger at them. They followed.

            Greebo's goal, of course, was to sample every female who crossed into his territory, but even he had to admit after a week that this was far too much work for one cat. He'd barely got through a third of the women available, and not for lack of trying. He had to sleep. And there were the shows to do. He calculated he'd have to stay in Ankh-Morpork another couple of weeks to reach his goal of one hundred percent saturation. It had all been so much easier in Bad Ass.

            That's where he met the Tomcats. Their music was all right but they couldn't sing and Greebo was clearly the perfect front man if he was given enough fish and a warm place to nap. At first, it was all for fun. It was for the ladies. Going on tour had shown Greebo that even fun got to be work if there was enough of it.

            He emerged from the alley with a grin on his face, a man who still did love his work. On East Street, he was spotted by a clutch of school girls with _Tiger Beets_ in their hands. They screamed. He ran. Not because of the girls but because of the noise. It was an automatic feline response he'd only managed to suppress inside the controlled environment of Bongo's Song Pit.

            The respectable twin sisters stepped out of the alley with their hats straightened and their faces arranged in a manner that made it clear that they had not been up to mischief of any kind. They blended into the foot traffic. The lady with the umbrella wasn't aware that the back of her dress was stuck in her petticoat.

--

            The four men stared at the poster laid out flat on the conference table in the Oblong Office. None of them spent much time examining the physical characteristics of other men, but the detailed colored woodcut of Greebo forced them to draw conclusions on the subject. It was a pose of Greebo with his tambourine smiling devilishly out of the page, but it might as well have been Greebo stretched out on some sort of comfortable couch with a sign saying "First come, first serve" in his hand.

            "Angua's too self-confident for that to impress her," said Carrot.

            "Cheery's too sensitive," said Drumknott.

            "Sybil's too sensible," said Vimes.

            Lord Vetinari tossed a magazine – _Tiger Beet_ -- on top of the poster. On the cover, Greebo was doing one of his hip-wagging moves. Drumknott coloured.

            "He does that in public?"

            "That's a definite violation of the ordinances," said Carrot. "Paragraph 8, Section 2 Lewd Public Behaviour as revised by--"

            "Gentlemen, denial will not help us," interrupted the Patrician. "This young man, for reasons that must seem obvious, appeals to our ladies. I am alarmed to report that numerous articles with Mr. Greebo's image on them are now gracing Miss Stein's rooms. Posters, iconographs, mugs and so on. Have you noticed something similar?"

            "Angua has a Greebo picture in her locker at Pseudopolis Yard," said Carrot. "I saw it. Cheery has one too."

            "She does?" Drumknott looked crestfallen.

            "Sybil's been trying to cook again," said Vimes, "out of the Greebo Cookbook. She couldn't cook to begin with, and then these recipes. It's all fish. And she has a Greebo dragon apron. Where in Hades did she get a Greebo dragon apron?"

            "Yes, yes," said Lord Vetinari. "This man obviously has a certain attraction. And aside from Sir Samuel, who cuts a striking figure in those trousers, none of us can truly compete with him."

            "Sounds like somebody's been trying," said Vimes nastily. "Miss Stein putting you through your paces, sir?"

            "Actually, yes. And I am operating under the assumption that the same is true for all of you."

            There was a round of pointed silence.

            "If we are to extricate ourselves from the excessive enthusiasm of our ladies, we must confront the root of the problem," said Lord Vetinari. "Mr. Greebo, or I should say, his manager Mr. Dibbler, has dodged my invitations to the Palace the last several days."

            "Dibbler," said Vimes, a hand over his eyes.

            "His involvement alone is proof that this problem may not be easily solved by traditional means."

            "We could try asking them again not to go to the show anymore," said Carrot.

            "Cheery said I was getting too controlling."

            "Ask nicely."

            "I did! I danced for her for twenty minutes before I…" At the stares from the others, Drumknott fell silent.

            "What did Angua say when you asked her to stop going?" asked Vimes.

            Carrot shrugged. "She said she'll do whatever she wants."

            "Which I believe is the general consensus among the ladies," said Lord Vetinari. "It is possible for Sergeant Angua and Corporal Littlebottom to be put on the night shift again to curb their visits to Mr. Greebo's show, but that would not solve the problem for us, Vimes."

            "Why can't we just lock our women up in the Tanty for a few days?" he grumbled. "They'll get over it."

            "Jailing someone without cause is a violation of Paragraph 1 stroke--"

            "Pardon me, captain," said Drumknott, rubbing his eyes, "but could you please shut up about the ordinances?"

            "Drumknott!" scolded Vetinari.

            "It's Paragraph 4 anyway," said the clerk.

            "No, it isn't," said Carrot.

            "Yes, it is."

            "No, it isn't!"

            "Yes, it _is_!"

            Vimes grabbed Drumknott by the collar. "Did you just tell a captain of the Watch to shut up, lad?"

             "It's all right, sir. He's tired. We're all a little--"

            "You stay out of this, Carrot."

            "Commander, release my clerk."

            Vimes shook Drumknott. "You got some nerve…"

            Carrot put his arm out. "Sir, let go of him."

            "Shut up, Carrot!"

            Drumknott tried to slither out of Vimes' grasp, but he flailed by accident into Carrot, who pushed back. This began the minor altercation. It lasted about two minutes, during which Lord Vetinari seated himself back at the table, picked up his copy of _Tiger Beet_ and passed the time by taking another look at the gentleman who was causing so much discord. There was a centerfold. Lord Vetinari tipped his head to look at it just as an inkwell arched over him and crashed against the wall. He moved onto the next page, grateful that at least the first centerfold he'd ever looked at in his life was not of Hanna. He'd been worried about that.

            Vimes, Carrot and Drumknott finally straightened up, panting. They fixed their clothing and dusted themselves off.

            "Feeling better, gentlemen?" asked the Patrician.

            They nodded.

            "Good. It is obviously time for us to pay a personal visit to Greebo and the Tomcats. I trust you will restrain yourselves better tonight. Gods forbid your pent-up frustration should explode upon the object of our ladies' affections."

            He smiled at the cover iconograph of Greebo. It wasn't a nice smile at all.


	4. Bad Kitty

As promised, here's the last chapter (and fast just for **Metal EB**, who needs her fix, you addict!). You'll see in a few moments that it's important for you to keep in mind what kind of shoes the men wear. **Ivycreeper** – I neglected my fanfic duties because I was writing stuff I hope to get paid for one day. **Waves** – I'm not a plushie person, but I'd make an exception for a Vetinari plushie. Good to see you again, **Zela**. And **Drakyndra** – welcome to the club. Thanks to all of you for the reviews. I lied at the start of the last chapter – I said a Havvie/Hanna story will be next, but instead, I'll put up the long promised serious (i.e. not comic) Vetinari romance. But first, enjoy the rest of the comedy!

4. Bad Kitty

            Esk squinted up at Granny. She was grown up now and she was a wizard of some grade that didn't exist before she arrived at Unseen University, but Granny was tall and no amount of magic was going to get Esk taller than her shoulder.

            Granny and Nanny had been in Ankh-Morpork half an hour. It was dark already. The coach was delayed by the usual crushed wheels, muddy passes and highwaymen that were a part of long distance travel. Of course, nothing was stolen from the witches. The highwaymen decided to choose a new profession when Granny glared at them out the coach window with one raised eye brow, her pointy hat in her lap.

            It was Granny's decision to go to the Disc's foremost university of magic to chat with Esk. It'd been a long time since they saw the girl, but that wasn't the real reason Granny wanted to see her. The witch towered over Esk, her arms folded, her nose in the air.

            "This place got clothes pins, don't it?" she asked, surveying the grounds with distaste.

            Esk looked at Nanny Ogg, who was busy grinning at a large poster she'd pulled off a wall around the corner. It had a man in black leather with a tambourine in his hand.

            "Sure, we have clothes pins, Granny," said Esk.

            "Please, if you will, get me one clothes pin. Please."

            "But why?"

            "Just…get me a clothes pin. Please."

            Esk considered using magic for the errand, but she decided to sprint to the drying room instead. When she returned, the witches were exactly in the same spot just inside the university gates. Granny thanked her for the clothes pin and proceeded to snap it onto her nose. She sighed.

            "Better."

            "Watch out or you'll start a new fashion," said Nanny.

            Esk leaned toward her. "What's the--"

            Nanny rubbed her nose. "The smell, you see. It don't bother me, but it looks like Ankh-Morpork is even ranker than it was last time we was here."

            "A disgrace," said Granny. "If the persodal hygiede of the Patriciad is adythig like this city, I dever wat to beet hib."

            Nanny held up the poster.

            "We thought you could tell us where this Bongo's Song Pit is."

            Esk coloured. "I wouldn't know."

            Granny blinked at her.

            "Really, I wouldn't." Esk adjusted her wizard hat uncomfortably.

            Nanny rolled up the poster.

            "Now Esk, be sensible. Just tell us where it is."

            "I don't go to those kind of places." She looked from Nanny to Granny. Neither looked convinced. "Really, I don't. I'm a…wizard. Wizards don't go to…those kind of places."

            Nanny sucked on a tooth for a moment. "You got a choice. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which one do you want?"

--

            GREE-BO! GREE-BO! GREE-BO! GREE-BO!

            Bongo's Song Pit was so packed that the trolls that served as bouncers were routinely bouncing back into the streets the frantic, screaming, sobbing women who were too late to squeeze in. There wasn't any room to dance. There wasn't any room to breathe. Tickets for Greebo and the Tomcats were going for a hundred a pop and the place was still jumping.

              As usual, the Tomcats were on stage already tuning their instruments but there was no sign of Greebo. The crowd was getting restless.

            GREEBO! GREEBO! GREEBO!

            The patched dark blue curtain off the stage was always open. Bongo never bothered to close it because he'd never put on the type of show classy enough to require it. The curtain was gathered stage right. It hung there without interest except for the four pairs of shoes sticking out from under it. Elegant black slippers, flashy black boots, sensible brown loafers and massive brown sandals.

            The loafers were at the crack in the curtain. A hand sliced by paper cuts pulled it aside a fraction.

            "There she is! I see her! Look at her! She's…she's…"

            A pale, blue-veined hand twitched the curtain back into place.

            "Calm down, Drumknott."

            "Do you see what she's wearing, milord? She shouldn't be able to wear that in public!"

            "It is against the law, but I won't tell you which one," said a deep, peevish voice.

            "Let me have a look." After a good deal of squeeching, the black boots took a turn at the front.

            GREEBO! GREEBO! GREEBO!

            "Er…Carrot? I wouldn't look out there if I were you."

            The curtain billowed a little. The sandals were at the crack in the curtain.

            "Oh I've seen her wear that before." There was a long pause. "I don't think you should look out there again, sir."

            "Bloody hell I shouldn't."

            "I didn't mean--"

            There was a shuffling of feet behind the curtain and bulges in the fabric that signalled elbows in use. A high-pitched whistle blared out.

            "Something interesting, Sir Samuel?"

            "I don't know if you should tell him, sir."

            A black slipper tapped the floor impatiently. "Tell me what, captain?"

            The curtain was pinched shut.

            "Nothing, sir."

            "Commander, kindly step aside."

            "I don't think--"

            "_Commander_."

            The slippers took over the place at the crack in the curtain. A pale hand made a tiny opening. Slowly, the fingers curled around the fabric. And squeezed.

            GREEBO! GREEBO! GREEBO!

            "Sir?"

            "Yes, commander?"

            "I think you should let go of the curtain now."

            There was a pause.

            "Slowly release your hand, sir. We don't want to rip anything, do we? Nice and slow. Yes, that's right. See? A lot better now."

            "I'm sure in all the excitement Miss Stein just forgot the rest of her clothes, sir."

            "Carrot!"

            "I was just trying to help him, sir. He's looking a little--"

            "I am fine, captain. Thank you for your concern."

            There was another general shuffling of feet behind the curtain. The brown loafers were at the front again. The occupant let out an anguished sigh.

            "Cheery! What has got into… Oh…_my_…"

            "What?"

            There was no answer. The black boots kicked a loafer. "I said, what? What?"

            The loafers backed away from the edge of the curtain. The black boots took the front.

            There followed a string of the most filthy, abominable and creative curses the others had ever heard. It was loud too, but the crowd was even louder.

            "Lady Sybil, milord. It looks like she's not wearing any--"

            "I deduced that by Sir Samuel's reaction, Drumknott."

            "Can I look again, sir?"

            "No, Carrot, you can't. If any of you make one gods damn move toward this curtain, I'll--"

            THERE HE IS!

            The shrieking that started at this anonymous announcement topped anything any of the men behind the curtain had ever heard except in battle (which only half had been in) or in torture (which three quarters of them were familiar with). The exception, of course, was that the screaming had no relation to terror at all. It was something wild, deep and completely out of control.

--

            "So let me get this straight," said Nanny Ogg. "You dumped this Simon lad a while back for somebody named…" she nearly choked, "…_Ponder_?"

            "No!" Esk looked panicky. "It's just a rumour but it isn't true. I swear. It's not."

            Nanny had the gift of picking up lurid rumour immediately in any situation, even at the lonely gates of Unseen University.

            "That ain't what the graffiti on the wall over there said," she said.

            "Where?"

            "About where I found this poster. Now, I know you know where this Bongo's is, and Granny here knows it…"

            Granny nodded sternly.

            "…so I think you should just own up, Esk. Otherwise, I might have to paint the town red. With the words _Esk loves Ponder_. In spray paint. I think I got a can around here somewhere." Nanny started rummaging in the wondrous storage area known as her knickers.

            "All right!" cried Esk.  She told what she had to in order to save her wizardly reputation. It was the only thing to do to get out from under Granny's disapproving and amused squint.

--

            All four of them were peering out of the curtain now, looking out vertically, their heads arranged tallest to smallest like a totem pole: Carrot, Vetinari, Vimes, Drumknott. This is what they saw:

            Greebo striding onto the stage, stopping at the microphone, showing his fangs to the crowd and giving his tambourine a rakish shake.

            "Rooowwwwrrrrrr, ladies!"

            Another shake on the tambourine.

            "I am heeeeeeerrrrrrrre!"

            This was obvious, but the crowd seemed to have been waiting for this opportunity to move beyond hysterics into the realm of pure, unadulterated mass frenzy. Women fainted. There was widespread weeping. Hair was pulled out, blouses pulled up.

            Sybil, Hanna, Angua and Cheery were in a tight circle together, a collective little ball of potential energy waiting to explode. There was a lack of undergarments among them or, in the case of Hanna, a lack of over garments. The women were clutching each other in the manner of comrades trying to hold each other back from doing something they'd regret.

            The Tomcats started up a cord. It winged through the club, shooting excitement into a crowd that a moment ago looked like it couldn't take any more.

            Greebo started singing.

            The men behind the curtain examined him closely. Drumknott was the first to make a comment.

            "He's not so…"

            Greebo's hips started up.

            "… Oh."         

            By then, there was a whole lot of jigglin' goin' on. The floor shook. With the exception of the men behind the curtain, not one person in the Song Pit kept his or her feet on the ground.

            Vimes watched in shock as Sybil, his brick solid, sensible wife, lost all sense of propriety. She was shaking all over, shimmying from hips to shoulders and back again. And that in a black leather dress that was cut both low and high at the same time. She appeared to be wearing a dog collar. With spikes.

            Angua's hair whipped around to the beat of the drums, her whole head bobbing with it. She wore tight blue trousers that hugged her low for Carrot's taste and a strip of fabric that was wrapped around her chest in a futile attempt to cover up her mobile bits. This didn't really bother Carrot. It was the way she had her mouth open, howling with everyone else though she was still in human form. It just wasn't right.

            There was a stunned look on Drumknott's face, but it wasn't just that Cheery had located a very short skirt made of chain mail spaced out far too much to really cover anything. It was the bells. Those little bells that some cat owners hung around the necks of their pussies. A half dozen were curled into Cheery's beard, tied off with red ribbon. When she threw herself around to the music, she sounded like a Hogswatch sleigh.

            And then there was Hanna. Lord Vetinari had expected a short dress or something slinky or something see through. He'd seen her wear all of these before. But what got him clutching his walking stick until his knuckles were white was the corset. It was mustard yellow with black trim and had been…altered. It was decidedly…conical. With glittery, dangling…_things_ at the appropriate (or from the Patrician's perspective, very _inappropriate_) places. Hanna had her bare arms in the air and she was wriggling like a trout swimming upstream.

            Greebo flexed his muscles and strutted to the edge of the stage, his boots tapping the floor, his tambourine slamming against his hip.

            "Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry…"

            Every lady in the house belted out a monumental scream.

            "I wish I could be as carefree and wild…" Greebo spun around and carried the microphone down on one knee, right in front of Sybil. His voice dropped, his fingers snapping the beat. "…cause I got cat class and I got cat style…"

            This is where things went boing.

            Sybil threw her arms around Greebo's neck.

            Vimes let out a cry of fury and launched himself toward the stage. He plowed through sweating, screaming women, who fell upon him in hopes of preventing him from reaching their idol.

            Captain Carrot, upon seeing his commander in danger, leapt out from behind the curtain to his rescue.

            By then, Sybil was in Greebo's arms and oblivious to the fact that her husband was trying to extricate himself from the audience without having to punch any of the women in the face. He managed to climb over the footlights without setting himself on fire, but before he could take a swing at Greebo, one of the Tomcats brought his bass down on his back.

            At which point Carrot, on stage now too, swiped said Tomcat off his feet and prepared to relieve him of his weapon. Another Tomcat appeared, the drummer this time, and poked Carrot under the arm with one of his drumsticks. Carrot let out a yell of pain and the Tomcat laughed, angering Angua enough for her to leap on stage and deliver a devastating right upper cut.

            The guitarist swung his instrument into Angua's arm, she staggered over the bassist, who was still groaning about his knees on the floor, and Cheery grabbed her axe from its sling on her back and bounced up on stage, her teeth bared.

            Bongo's Song Pit was in an uproar, most of the audience under the assumption that this was a Watch raid. People scurried back and forth, screeching, joining in on minor scuffles amongst themselves, some heading for the exits. Bongo himself appeared on stage and tried to appeal for calm but the demon had hightailed it out of the microphone at the first sign of trouble.

            Sybil was collapsed in a bundle of cords in the back of the stage while Vimes and Greebo circled one another. Or rather, Greebo danced around grinning and licking his lips while Vimes polished his right knuckles in preparation for the real action.

            But first…

            The guitarist jumped out of the grasp of Carrot, who was back on his feet and not happy about his wound from the drummer, and the guitar was swung again, a great arch that crashed into Cheery and knocked her on top of the bassist.

            Drumknott wriggled out of Lord Vetinari's grasp and raced up to the stage, running on adrenalin, the fact that he didn't know how to fight completely forgotten. He picked up Cheery's axe and confronted the guitarist, who'd raised his instrument over her for the final blow.

            Drumknott's appearance was the sign to Hanna that she was doomed. As soon as Vimes and Carrot had appeared, she'd allowed the little "uh-oh" in her mind to slide away. A Watch raid wasn't the end of the world. At least _he_ wasn't there.

            But she'd still had the presence of mind to ease her way toward the wings, dodging projectiles, pushing back when someone pushed her.

            Drumknott. If he was there, it was perfectly possible that…

            A bar stool arched through the air and Hanna ducked. It crashed into the stage.

            …no, _he_ couldn't _possibly_ be there. It wasn't his kind of place. He'd never show up, he always sent the Watch to do his dirty work, no matter how hard she'd been on him the past week, he'd _never_…

            She looked around frantically for a place to hide. There was a blue curtain off the stage that looked promising. She moved toward it.

            The drummer flung his sticks like throwing stars at Carrot and Angua but they ducked and fell upon him, taking turns thumping him over the head. Drumknott stepped heroically over Cheery, swung her axe at the guitarist, it slipped out of his hand, sliced through the air and embedded itself into the wall a few inches over Sybil's head. She screamed angrily, but not at the axe. Greebo had Vimes by the neck and both were trying to be the first to knee the other in the vitals. Sybil pulled the axe out of the wall and took a threatening stance.

            "Let go of my husband," she said in a low tone that was a thin line from snapping.

            Hanna slipped behind the blue curtain. She'd been watching the brawl through the crack for a full minute before she noticed she wasn't alone. She didn't turn around. She didn't want to look. It was a good thing she didn't. She might have misinterpreted the fact that Lord Vetinari was undressing. His outer robe at least. Hanna stayed silent and stared at the curtain and didn't move until she felt the black fabric drape over her shoulders. Her arms and hands were swallowed up in the sleeves so the Patrician buttoned up the robe himself. A loud crash from the direction of the stage made him wince but otherwise, he didn't look angry. Rather pleased, actually.

            On stage, Vimes was attempting to punch Greebo in the mouth again while at the same time urging his wife to calm down. She was trembling, the axe handle splitting in her fists.

            "Put the axe down, Sybil. Put it down." Greebo swiped at Vimes with his finger nails and Vimes kicked him savagely in the ankle. "That's a girl, Sybil. You can do it. Just put the axe down."

            Sybil didn't move.

            "Are you all right, Sam?"

            Greebo brought his tambourine down on Vimes' head and got a right jab at the jaw as pay back.

            "I'm fine, Sybil. Just fine. Put down the axe."

            At that moment, a blaring, high-pitched voice with a country accent boomed out over the chaos:

             "GREEBO! BAD KITTY!"

            Everyone in Bongo's Song Pit froze. There was deep, utter silence.

            Skirts flying, Nanny Ogg angrily waddled up to the stage, followed by Granny Weatherwax, who was staring around her with disapproval. Nanny put her fists on her hips.

            "Bad kitty! Bad! Look what yer doing!"

            Greebo let go of Vimes and slithered up to the edge of the stage.

            "Naaaannnnnyyyyy," he whined.

            "You come down here right now. Nanny has had enough, you hear me?"

            Greebo had his head down and was peering side to side as if looking for an escape route. Nanny pointed to the floor at her feet.

            "You listen to your Nanny. You come down here right now."

            "Rooowwwwrrrrrl," said Greebo. He leapt off the stage, landing elegantly, then hunched over so that his head was below Nanny height.

            "You should be ashamed of yerself, worrying your Nanny like that," she said.

            "Sorrrrryyyy, Naaaaannnnnyyyy." He rubbed his head against her chest.

            The remains of the audience looked at one another in confusion. This wasn't supposed to be how Greebo acted. He was a man's man, well, a ladies man, but that meant he was his own boss, totally confident, totally open, a little wild, just dangerous enough to be spicy. He wasn't supposed to be this…domesticated.

            He pawed at Nanny and tried to make purring sounds.

            "We're going home," said Nanny, "and there's no fish for you for a whole month." He whined against her chest and she softened, patting his hair. "Oh, maybe just two weeks. Poor Greebo." She led him away and he followed, docile, the silent crowd parting for them.

            Granny Weatherwax went up on stage, ran a critical eye over Sybil, Vimes, Cheery, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua and the Tomcats, then turned toward the audience. She corrected the position of her pointy hat and removed the clothes pin from her nose.

            "In case you city folk don't recognize the pointy hat, I'm a witch and I got something to say," she said. "You should all be ashamed of yerselves. Look at you! Dressing like harem girls from forn parts. Just _look_ at you!" She pointed at a woman, who of course looked behind her. "You ain't even got a petticoat on. What respectable lady don't go round in a petticoat? I got three, in case yer wondering, that's how respectable _I_ am. Do you think throwing yer clothes around for a vicious, dirty-minded creature like Greebo going to make you happy? I got goats with more sense than that!"

            She glared at the audience.

            "And another thing. I know every one of you has a father or a brother or a husband or a gentleman friend, and not one of'm acts like Greebo did. I'll tell ye why. It ain't just cause they don't have the witching potion. It's cause they're civilized. You know how many generations it took to get'm that way?"

            Nobody answered.

            "A lot, that's how many. A lot of work has gone into making men bearable enough to live with. Now, I don't live with any, they're still not _that_ bearable, but most are good enough for you. So go home to yer men and be happy with what ye got. If you don't got one, be happy with that too. I am."

            She paused, staring out over the crowd. The women were looking sheepish.

            "Go home. That's what I'm doin. I'm taking the next coach out of this city. I cain't stand the smell."

            Head up, nose re-plugged, Granny Weatherwax marched out of the Song Pit.

--

            Early the next morning…

            Rufus Drumknott and Cheery Littlebottom greeted the day with two large mugs of hot coffee at Giblet's Deli after a night of talking. No hips were involved.

            Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua were still sleeping on a cot in one of the crash rooms at Pseudopolis Yard. Carrot snored. Angua didn't mind.

            In Ankh, Lady Sybil Ramkin Vimes hefted a shovel over her shoulder as she went to her private dragon pens to do the morning rounds. She'd just begun to muck out a stall when Sam Vimes said from the stable door, "You need a hand?"

            She piled the first load onto the cart. "There's another shovel in the corner."

            They spent the next hour in the romantic pursuit of excrement transport. But at least they were in it together. Literally. By the end, Vimes' shiny new black boots weren't so shiny anymore.

            In the Palace garden, Hanna Stein – still in the Patrician's robe -- slept on the chair he used when he worked outside. She was awakened by the rustle of paper. Lord Vetinari sat in _her_ chair a few feet away, browsing patiently through a stack of papers on his lap. There was a small table beside him with a coffee pot, milk pitcher and two china cups. When Hanna stretched and yawned, Vetinari set his work aside and lifted the pot.

            "Good morning, Hanna. Half milk, I presume?" He poured. "I'm afraid the croissants will be a little late. In the meantime, perhaps I could explain the main features of the diplomatic code I've been using for confidential Uberwald dispatches. I expect you will learn it quickly; It is arch-demoniacal for people wishing to crack it but merely fiendish for those of us who know the key." He sipped his coffee.

            "Is this my punishment?" sighed Hanna. "Learning some silly code?"

            "Oh my dear lamb," he said, "learning is never a punishment. It is an exciting process of discovery. From now on, I plan to excite you to the very best of my ability."

            He smiled slyly over his cup.   

            And finally…

            A coach rumbled out of the Hubwards Gate. The olfactory nerves of Granny Weatherwax relaxed – along with the rest of her – as soon as the Ankh-Morpork suburbs were behind her. She settled back to sleep a spell. Nanny Ogg had dropped off as soon as Greebo climbed onto her lap, wrapped his tail around his paws and purred himself to sleep.     

END


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